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Ah yes, another smoke. There's something profound about using the burning butt of a cigarette to light the next one. Yeah. That last swill of Steel Reserve. Another puff of magic into my lungs. Obscure enlightenment with a furrowed brow. And the inhale. A connection with Native tobacco ritual. And I'm here with it. Another non-biodegradable piece of waste snuffed out on the wet asphalt. And I'm just smoking. My ritual of decadent relief.

How many times have I stood out here? And placed an empty can of beer, or bottle, on top of my car to get it out of my hand. Only to turn around in some compulsive habit to have something in my hand.

Oh yeah, why do I need to breathe fresh air when I have a cigarette? So I inhale, furrow my brow in another moment of enlightment. Ah yes, that does the trick.

Too many thoughts racing through my mind. How do make all these thoughts sum into one and write them before they are gone? As so many times. This drizzle of rain feels thick like my concentration.

But somehow this is different. Usually, I'm just struggling to keep my thought co-linear with some exaggerated plot line. But that's not what writing really is. Being a writer is like being a journalist. Your sitting inside your head interviewing the divine. And the report you give is determined by the sensationism of your senses.

But I'm wasted, I tell myself. How can I make myself actually write this shit down before I forget it? There's so many steps between me standing here next to my car and my computer.

I snuf the half smoked cigarette and wobble drunkenly like Nobel Prize laureate.

Yeah, this one's going to go down in print.